


perfection is a disease

by ennta



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of self-harm, Oral Sex, POCecil, Rimming, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 05:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1254853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ennta/pseuds/ennta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos may be perfect, but he's never been boyfriend material. And he's learned to live with that--until now. Because he very, very much wants to be perfect for Cecil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heyfeebs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyfeebs/gifts).



> While this work is mostly PWP, it does touch on issues of anxiety and self-harm, so please don't read if you feel this will trigger you in any way.

 

Carlos ties his hair back, takes a breath.

The knot in his stomach coils tighter, parasitic and as permanent as the cluster of freckles beneath his left eye.

He straightens the lapels of his lab coat with fingers that shake against all reason and nods at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He likes Cecil, likes him so much. Enjoys spending time with him. Loves that Cecil is the first guy who laughs sincerely at Carlos's halting, overly complicated jokes, whether he understands them or not.

But that knot is still there, every time, because Carlos is practical enough to realize that each date could be _the one_.

The one where he isn’t good enough after all. The one where he says something so awkward that Cecil smiles pitifully and asks for the check. The one where they go back to Carlos's apartment and Cecil stays the night and Carlos wakes up all alone in tangled sheets with only a note on the nightstand. The one where Carlos is fuckable, just not boyfriend material.

Carlos realizes, objectively, that he is conventionally attractive. Symmetrical face, strong jawline, straight teeth and big eyes. He is addicted to the endorphins that stem from a hard workout in the same way that he is addicted to coffee, in a way he refuses to consider himself addicted to Prozac or lithium or whatever his psychiatrists insist he take, and he has had enough lovers compliment his physique to know that he is fairly fortunate to be in possession of this body.

Or maybe he isn’t so fortunate; once his body ceases to be the focus of a relationship, all of the knots in his stomach tie a noose to cut him off from intimacy, and then the light goes out of his lover’s eyes at the sight of pill bottles lined up on the counter, at the old scars and burn marks only visible against Carlos's skin if you were very, very close.

_Not boyfriend material._

Carlos's phone chirps at him. He glances over at it.

Cecil.

Carlos very much wants to be boyfriend material for Cecil. He checks the text message, even though he knows what it says.

_i’m here :) :) :) <3 <3_

As always, Cecil's fondness for emoticons makes Carlos's lips tilt up in a smile. He crosses his small living room and undoes the series of complicated locks on his door, the knot in his stomach slowly consuming all rational thought until he pulls the door open and Cecil barrels through, a grinning hurricane, an earthquake in a violet tunic and tight checkered pants.

“I brought the movies!” Cecil enthuses, wrapping his arms around Carlos's neck and inhaling deeply. “Mmm, you’re wearing the cologne I bought you!”

Carlos feels his face heat up as he hugs Cecil back. “Um, yeah.” He isn’t really one for cologne, but Cecil said it was special, a smell like springtime in Svitz, and Carlos has actually found that he likes wearing it.

Cecil pulls away reluctantly, still grinning, and it isn’t long before they’re on the couch in the dark, watching what Cecil claims is _Pacific Rim_ but actually seems to be an avant garde meditation on the life of a homeless woman in Seychelles. In Russian, with Mandarin subtitles, of course.

And then Cecil is kissing Carlos, and Carlos's gut clenches with lust and anxiety and fear. Maybe, he thinks, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, to draw a happy moan from Cecil, maybe this time, he’ll be good enough, and he’ll wake up in Cecil's arms with another date on the horizon.

So he pulls Cecil to the bedroom, sits him on the edge of the bed, and pauses, considering Cecil's flushed cheeks and wide violet eyes and adoring smile. Carlos reaches out and tangles Cecil's long black braid in his hand, leans down and gently tugs Cecil's mouth back to his.

Maybe this time Carlos can be perfect enough.

Carlos takes his time undressing Cecil, stretching him out on the mattress, lips brushing Cecil's neck as his hands slowly work Cecil's tunic off over his head. He leaves fingerprints up and down Cecil's lithe brown torso, nipping at ticklish spots as Cecil moans and giggles and tangles his fingers in Carlos's hair, which has long since been pulled free of its ponytail.

Cecil sits up and playfully swats Carlos's shoulder. “You’re still dressed,” he points out. He raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Can I help you with that?”

Carlos nods, and Cecil hums a little as his long fingers push Carlos's labcoat down his arms then go to work on the buttons of his flannel shirt.

A new wave of anxiety shoots through Carlos, because what if Cecil has imagined something better, something --

But Cecil just murmurs reverent nonsense as his fingers trace the well-defined muscles of Carlos's arms, his chest, his abdomen, and those fingers are warm and curious enough to spark Carlos out of his ruminations.

Carlos pushes Cecil down onto his back, straddles him, leans down to kiss him senseless. This, he can do. His body may betray him when he asks it to speak or remember his own birthday or make lasagna, but this, this is just a series of reactions he can quantify. Cecil has dark, sensitive nipples and a ticklish spot just below his ribs on the left side of his body. So Carlos teases at Cecil's nipples with his tongue, strokes the most sensitive stretches of the other man’s skin, leaves Cecil breathless but still attempting to narrate his pleasure --

_oh Carlos please, this is so good, oh you have such a wonderful tongue, your hands are so strong, i love your hands please don’t stop please don’t ever stop_

When they are both naked, pants and underclothes discarded with tunic and labcoat and shirt, Carlos rolls Cecil over onto his stomach, not missing the shiver of anticipation that ripples like an electric current under Cecil's skin. Carlos wants to be thorough, wants to make sure he gets everything he needs out of this exchange, just in case --

Just in case he is right, and this is the only chance he gets.

Carlos kneads Cecil's shoulder blades with big, sure hands, kisses a trail down Cecil's spine, wordlessly rearranges Cecil so that his knees are spread apart, his ass in the air, and when Carlos leans in to lick at Cecil's entrance, Cecil actually _keens_ , a happy, high-pitched noise that Carlos wants to hear again and again and again, and with each slick sweep of his tongue, Cecil's voice grows higher,

_oh Carlos, my perfect Carlos, what did i do to deserve you i don’t deserve you oh Carlos i’m going to die this is perfect, so perfect, more Carlos please--_

So Carlos gives him more, slowly pressing his tongue inside, trying to forget just how hard he is and just how slick and wet and welcoming, how completely willing, Cecil is right now.

And then Carlos can’t wait anymore, even though he wants to draw this out as long as he possibly can, and he pulls away, Cecil's little gasp of disappointment enough to make him feel just a bit guilty as he reaches into the nightstand for a condom and a bottle of lube.

“Roll over for me,” Carlos whispers, voice hoarse, his hands shaking again as he fumbles with the condom, sliding it over his heavy cock. “I want to see you.”

Cecil's chest is rising and falling in time with his rapid breathing; his eyes look a little glassy, his full, bruised lips still try and form praise despite the fact that he is too far gone to do anything more than moan and gasp and beg. “Wanted this--wanted you--for so long,” he manages, and Carlos's breath catches.

Cecil is the most beautiful thing Carlos has ever seen, and for the first time Carlos admits to himself that losing Cecil might break him.

So he leans forward to kiss Cecil again, slowly this time, as he slides one long, slick finger into Cecil. Cecil moans into Carlos's mouth, grabs for his hair again, and then Carlos is adding another finger, gently working them in and out, in and out, until Cecil is ready for a third, until Carlos breaks the kiss to try and get his breath back before lining himself up and pressing into Cecil.

Carlos is gentle about it at first, setting the pace with long, slow strokes that have Cecil closing his eyes, his mouth falling open. And God, Cecil is tight and warm and slick with lube and spit and Carlos folds himself over Cecil, bites at a spot on his shoulder, begins to push faster, because he can’t take this anymore, can’t take the way he’s sick with lust, now, with another sort of tension in his stomach; this tension, at least, he can expel.

Cecil finds his voice again, continues his monologue --

_oh! right there, oh gods, right there, yesss, goood, oh! faster, faster, unnnngh, so perfect, so perfect my Carlos_

and Carlos comes on the next thrust, biting down on Cecil's shoulder as his body unwinds, shakes itself into a million sweet little pieces, and it is the hardest he has come in a very long time, it is a pulsing catharsis that leaves him briefly, perfectly blank.

He pulls out of Cecil, pulls away, slides down Cecil's body to keep his side of the bargain. He takes Cecil's cock in his mouth and Cecil makes that keening noise again, his hips jumping, and Carlos reaches out to place one of Cecil's hands in his hair, his eyes inviting Cecil to thrust, to use him as he needs.

Cecil licks his lips and thrusts once, gently, and Carlos clenches his thumb in his fist to null his gag reflex. Carlos hums in the back of his throat, knows the vibration will echo on Cecil's skin like a caress, and at that Cecil gives a little cry and begins to thrust eagerly, his hand tightening in Carlos's hair.

Carlos takes Cecil deep, hollowing his cheeks and licking at the sweat and precome on Cecil's skin. He needs to memorize this, just in case, just in case this isn’t good enough for Cecil …

_oh my Carlos, my sweet perfect Carlos, my beautiful Carlos, i’m -- i’m going to --_

Carlos swallows, suckling gently at Cecil's sensitized cock as he lets it slide out of his mouth. He looks at Cecil, and there is nothing in Cecil's violet eyes but an awe that melts Carlos down to nothing and, improbably, makes him blush.

“My Carlos,” Cecil whispers, pushing himself up into a sitting position and taking Carlos's face between his hands. “Oh, my perfect, perfect Carlos.”

Carlos's blush deepens and Cecil catches his mouth in a sour, sticky kiss, a kiss that leaves them both breathless.

Their breathing slows to normal, and they shower, running warm wet hands over spent bodies, Carlos gently shampooing Cecil's long black hair.

When they're dry and warm, Carlos changes the sheets. Brushes his teeth, opens one pill bottle after another, as he does every night,

and he crawls into bed with Cecil, who seems reluctant to leave even a millimeter of space between their skin. Carlos has barely pulled the blankets over them when Cecil is twined around him, a comically small big spoon, his face nuzzled between Carlos's shoulder blades.

Cecil drifts off to sleep.

The knot in Carlos's stomach comes back.

He focuses on Cecil's breathing, matches his own to the steady rhythm, focuses on the warm body tangled up in his, the soft comfort of another human being so close and so intimate.

It is still another hour before Carlos falls asleep.

When he wakes, mind as hazy as the sunlight filtering through the heavy curtains, he is alone. He knows this even before he reaches out to find the bed too big and too empty, knows this when Cecil's clothes are not still strewn on the floor next to Carlos's bed.

Carlos studies the pain blossoming in his gut with a clinical detachment; the clothes he threw carelessly to the carpet the night before have been folded neatly and placed next to the lamp on the bedside table, but there is no note pinned to them. There are dozens of explanations, logical explanations for Cecil’s disappearance:

He could have been called away, forced to chase down an early-morning news story, left with only enough time to tidy up for Carlos but not time enough to fashion a not-a-pen and find a piece of paper.

But Carlos feels his breathing speed up, his hands begin to shake. He cards them through his hair, now tangled over his shoulders, and attempts to breathe in slow and steady sighs. He can’t succumb to a panic attack, not now, not when he has a full day of research ahead of him and--and--

He clumsily opens his pill bottles, swallows the chemical sedatives with a swig of tap water, and slowly, carefully locks himself down behind walls of logic and science until his mind shines with the sterility and single-minded purpose of a carefully-furnished laboratory.

Because it is never enough to be perfect. Carlos has to be _perfect enough_.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Carlos stays in the lab until everyone else is gone, too absorbed in his work to even mumble goodbyes as his team rushes out around him. There are hundreds of mysteries in the lab, each one easier to get lost in than the last, each frustrating mystery easier to deal with than the self-doubt eating at his stomach.

He doesn’t know what time it is when he hears the knock. He startles away from his microscope and warily crosses the lab to the door. Carlos doesn’t dare use the peephole (not after the trick-or-treat poison dart incident last Halloween), just quietly undoes the first two deadbolts and opens the door enough that he is shielded by it and provided a sliver of a glimpse beyond.

It’s Cecil.

Cecil, shifting from foot to foot and biting his lip, a bouquet of wilted roses in his arms.

“I’m so sorry, Carlos,” Cecil begins as soon as the door cracks open. “I had to be at the Elementary Bloodletting Sunrise Ceremony this morning, and then Intern Gladys wouldn’t let me text you--she said I would be smothering you--and then it didn’t matter anyway because the ceremony fried all electronics in the vicinity, and …”

Carlos pulls the door open the rest of the way and Cecil steps over the threshold, continuing his monologue.

“-- so then I stopped by the Apple store to get a new phone, but they don’t exist on Thursdays anymore, so I had to go to _RadioShack_ ” -- Cecil groans in despair. -- “and you know how they are, they hold you at knife point until you’ve agreed to give blood and buy their insurance plans, and by the time I got out, it was time for my broadcast and ….” Cecil trails off, finally noticing Carlos’s frown.

“I thought you’d gone,” Carlos says, hating the way his voice comes out wavery and a little high. “I just--I woke up and you weren’t there, and I thought, I mean, logically, why would you be there? We had a good time, we’re two consenting adults, intercourse is no longer a sociologically binding concept--”

Cecil tilts his head. “You thought--” Horror dawns across his face and his wide lips open in a small gasp of surprise. “--I made you think …. Oh.”

“No, it’s fine,” Carlos hastens to assure him, even though it’s not. “It’s fine, I’m used to it. It’s--it’s a good way to relieve tension, just a primal human need, and if … I mean, if it was nothing more than that to you, then … then that’s fine, that’s perfectly normal.” He can’t meet Cecil’s eyes.

It’s a long moment before Cecil speaks again, and when he does, his voice is calm, measured. “Is that all you want it to be?”

Carlos shakes his head, still staring at his Converse against the scuffed tile of the laboratory floor. “It’s not.” The admission takes something out of him, and he can feel that sterile chamber he constructed so carefully in his mind begin to fall apart. “But,” he continues, clearing away the lump in his throat, “that’s all you want. Trust me. You don’t want to go any further with this.”

Again, Cecil stays silent. Carlos hears a quiet rush and a muffled thud that must be the bouquet hitting the floor, and then Cecil is standing in front of him, reaching out with one thin finger to crook Carlos’s chin up.

“Look at me,” Cecil commands, his voice soft, but with that same calming authority he usually reserves for radio. “Why don’t I want to go any further?”

Carlos breathes deeply, forcing himself to meet Cecil’s eyes. “I have--I have issues, Cecil.” He counts to ten, weighs his options, blurts, “I lose people, Cecil. I get caught up in my work because it’s the only way I can keep from losing myself.” Cecil starts to open his mouth, but Carlos doesn’t let him get a word out. “When I panic, I’m not the sort of person I’d wish on anyone. And it’s not something you can fix. People try to fix me, and when they can’t, they just move on, and I don’t want--I don’t want that for you, Cecil.”

He doesn’t want Cecil to see him on the days when he can’t bring himself to shower, when he only stumbles out of bed because he has lab cultures to check on. Doesn’t want Cecil to see him when he closes all the doors and turns off all the lights and curls up under his blankets despite the desert heat and wishes that everything would _just fucking stop._

Feeling as though he has just run a marathon, Carlos drops his eyes back down to his shoes and waits.

Cecil’s fingertips ghost along Carlos’s cheekbones. “I can’t fix you,” he finally says, letting the words fall where they will. “I won’t try.” His palm cups Carlos’s face. “But I will help you, if you’ll let me.” He leans forward and places a kiss on Carlos’s forehead. “I’ll help you forget, when you need to forget. I’ll let you alone when you need that. But my dear, dear Carlos, I will always want you.”

Carlos hasn’t been able to cry since his medications numbed him down to bare functionality, but his throat tightens with unshed tears. “I want you, too,” he whispers.

Cecil leads him up the stairs to Carlos’s apartment above the lab and Carlos opens the door; inside, Cecil presses his forehead to Carlos’s, murmurs, “Can I take care of you tonight?”

Carlos nods mutely, relaxes into Cecil’s touch as he is pressed back onto his sagging couch. Cecil straddles him, every point of contact warming Carlos like wine, like Klonopin, like the blankets he pulls around himself to make the world go away. Cecil’s lips trail along Carlos’s jaw, languid, undemanding, as his fingers unbutton Carlos’s flannel workshirt and push it aside.

The sterile, rigid rooms in Carlos’s mind begin to open, as though windows have sprung up to let a quiet afternoon sunlight in. As Cecil’s hands travel his shoulders, his collarbones, the trail of dark hair leading to the waistband of his jeans, Carlos lets out a shuddering breath, exhaling his fear and his doubt and his panic, if only for this moment.

“Tell me,” Cecil whispers against his lips, “if you need me to stop.”

“Don’t,” Carlos says quickly. “Please don’t.”

Cecil hums and kisses down Carlos’s throat, nipping gently at his pulse point, licking along his collarbones. He nuzzles against Carlos’s chest, rolls his tongue to tease at a nipple, and Carlos moans, melts, feels himself sinking away on the best sort of tide.

By the time Cecil has kissed and licked his way to the waistband of Carlos’s jeans, Carlos is hard, desire thrumming through his veins in buzzing currents. Cecil unzips Carlos’s jeans, slides them down around his thighs, mouths at Carlos’s erection through his boxer briefs. Cecil’s breath through the soft warm fabric makes Carlos moan again, and he reaches down to tug himself free of the briefs, his hands shaking.

“You’re so beautiful, my Carlos,” Cecil murmurs, taking Carlos’s shaking hands in his, stilling them by twining their fingers together. He leans down to purse his lips around the head of Carlos’s erection, eyes still locked on Carlos’s, and sucks gently. “So very,” -- He pulls off, presses forward to take Carlos deeper, sucks slow and sweet before pulling back again. -- “so very, very good.”

Carlos crushes Cecil’s hands in his, because there is nothing in his mind but the hot desert sunlight that Cecil has kissed under his skin, into his veins; he needs this respite, needs it to sear him clean, if only for a moment.

And then Cecil has had enough of teasing; Carlos feels the head of his cock brush the back of Cecil’s throat, and when Cecil pulls back, just a bit, his tongue curls and presses around the heat of Carlos’s erection with a fervor that leaves Carlos panting.

Through it all, through the quick, sharp twists and bobs of Cecil’s head, the diversions of his tongue on tense, ready skin, the tight, wet warmth of his mouth, and then the inevitable, shuddering release, Cecil never lets go of Carlos’s hands.

The next time Cecil looks up, his lips curl into a sweet, wet smile, and Carlos folds himself over to kiss the man kneeling between his knees, to taste everything Cecil has offered him.

“Do you--” Carlos starts, sliding off the couch and running his palm over the bulge in Cecil’s slacks, but Cecil pushes his hand away.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Cecil whispers, his voice hoarse. His long fingers slide his zipper down, and he slips his trousers and boxers just loose enough that he can take his erection in his hand. “You don’t have to do anything,” he repeats, stroking himself leisurely, “anything at all. Just watch.”

Carlos notices that his lips are dry, licks them, forgets to close his mouth again as Cecil’s hand begins to move faster.

“Just be,” Cecil breathes, his voice catching as his movements grow frantic. “I don’t need you to be--” A gasp, and Carlos moves closer, though he doesn’t touch. “--don’t need you to be anything but Carlos.” The name is a prayer, a worshipful sigh as Cecil comes in his hand, eyes closed. “You do beautiful things to me, without doing anything at all,” he murmurs.

After a long moment, Cecil’s eyes blink open and he fixes Carlos with a serious look.

“I don’t care,” Cecil states, “if you don’t think you’re perfect. And I won’t try to make you fit some ideal of perfection. I simply know that I want you exactly as you are, and that perfection is a variable, not a constant.” He wipes his hand on his shirt, dismissively, as though he hasn’t just torn through Carlos’s defenses. “Is that okay?”

Carlos takes a deep, shuddering breath and nods. “Yeah. That’s--that’s better than okay.” He smiles, just a little. “Actually, that sounds perfect.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and left comments.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very welcome! Follow me on Tumblr, where I go by [in-static-pallor](http://in-static-pallor.tumblr.com/) and fangirl over Welcome to Night Vale and Renly/Loras from Game of Thrones!


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